


The Coffee Carol

by philomel



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, First Time, Humor, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office holiday party AU. Misha is Jensen’s Secret Santa, and Jensen is the master of coffee. He’s also Misha’s weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coffee Carol

The days of the week tend to blend together. Sometimes you just forget what day it is. But Misha can always tell by the level of coffee in the pot. It's better than any calendar. And you don't have to flip it over when you suddenly forget that it's no longer November — possibly hasn't been November for going on three and a half weeks. If only he could use the Coffee Pot Calendar to help him remember actual dates. It's the only flaw in the system's logic.

Jensen Ackles, he's Father Time at the office. The keeper of the pot. Okay, not _that_ pot; that would make work a whole different — arguably better, if less productive — experience. Jensen arrives ahead of everyone and makes the coffee that only he, Misha and Katie seem to drink. Traci's got her herbal teas. Malik's been on a yerba maté kick, more power to him. And Jared's too addicted to the Starbucks' white chocolate mochas that he over-sugars to stoop to drinking lowly store-bought. Besides, he's been banned from using the coffee maker ever since the Great Burnt Brew Incident of '08. There's an ongoing bet that Samantha subsists on booze and V8, but no one's been able to prove it. Misha's still convinced that she drinks neither, preferring instead the blood of young interns, although no one is willing to take that particular bet.

But the coffee, percolating bitter and bright every morning — that's Jensen's doing. And that's why he gets first cup. And second. And third.

On Mondays, by the time Misha arrives, there's a full pot. This is not because Jensen avoids coffee on Mondays, feeling awake and refreshed from the weekend. No, it's because he requires the entire pot to muddle through Monday morning, lining up all five cups on his desk and downing each one in rapid succession, not unlike a chain smoker. Courteously, he makes a fresh pot for Misha and Katie after emptying the first one. Without fail, Katie stumbles in after Misha every Monday. This is how Misha comes to learn that full pot of coffee equals Monday.

Tuesday and Wednesday, it's much the same, only reduce the pot by one cup per day. This should not be considered an indication that Jensen drinks less coffee. In fact, the opposite is true. On Tuesday, one full pot plus one extra cup is what it takes to fuel the average adult Ackles. On Wednesday, it's one cup more. By midweek, Misha figures Jensen contains enough caffeine to carry a city bus halfway across town, farther if the bus is heading downhill.

By Thursday, Jensen's veins have become sufficiently caffeinated to coast him through work with no more than three cups of coffee. This is how Misha knows that two cups left means two days left in the week.

On Friday, Jensen's still running on three cups. But on this last day, Katie finally finds the energy to get to work on time, often a full five minutes before Misha scurries through the door. In that five minutes, she's got her cup of coffee with her fake sweetener and her 2% milk stirring away in it, though she still hasn't made it to her desk. It is by this process of elimination and cunning observation that Misha concludes it must be Friday. The single cup of coffee remaining in the pot confirms it.

 

______________________________________________________

 

Today, when Misha shuffles through the break room entryway with all the ambition of a despondent zombie who's thinking of giving up brains, he spies the shallow pool of brown liquid in the coffee pot, sloshing around the one cup line.

"Happy Friday," he says. "Thank fuck it is."

"Merry Christmas to you too," Katie says, two-fisting her cup and blowing on the still-steaming coffee.

"And Happy Arbor Day." Misha reaches for his mug — something his nephew made in art class. It's a peachy pink color, and the handle's got an indentation down the middle making it look unsettlingly like labia. It doesn't concern Misha, who just hopes his nephew didn't use lead paint.

"Seriously?" Katie's biting the rim of her mug, eyes dark and hinting at some barely-restrained wickedness.

"What?" Misha says, grabbing his soy milk from the refrigerator and topping off his coffee with it.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Katie's grinning. With so many teeth exposed, it's rather disconcerting.

"I didn't!" Misha pauses. "I did. Help me out here?"

"Christmas party?" Katie offers. "Today? Ring any bells of the jingle variety?"

This is how Misha comes to burn his tongue and spill the very last cup of coffee. Simultaneously. Because he's a talented man.

 

______________________________________________________

 

He's also a forgetful man. Possibly a very screwed man — not in the favorable sense of the word.

See, he's the Secret Santa for Jensen. And Jensen isn’t just the master of coffee. He's kind of, well, perfect: all _GQ_ good looks and flawless hair and gapless teeth and suits that tailor themselves to his body just out of the kindness of their threads. Misha's fairly certain that if Jensen went out into the woods, birds would land on his shoulders and sing sweet melodies just for him from the perfect perch of his long, graceful, manicured finger.

That is why Misha has procrastinated with Jensen's gift.

"There's nothing I can get him that the universe hasn't already gifted him with."

"Sure," Malik says slowly. "The universe." He pauses. " _Gifted_ him with this grand life as thankless drone working for standard wages in the glorious setting of standard-issue cubicles over standard-issue carpeting under standard-issue fluorescent lights."

"By the way, is Jeff ever going to fix that strober over the fax machine?"

"I'm sure he'll make it his New Year's resolution," Malik says, craning his neck to stare hypnotically at the flickering overhead light. "I'm thinking of hanging some tinsel there, make a little dance floor under it once the party gets under way."

"My name better be at the top of your dance card," Traci says, stopping on her way by to grab Malik's hand and twirl him before continuing on to the photocopier.

"Top, bottom, and every slot in between."

"No, that doesn't sound dirty at all," Misha says, gathering up two piles of papers that he's not entirely sure belong together and rapping them on the desktop.

"Yeah, well. Speaking of slots that need filling... Jensen?"

Misha fumbles his grip and three sheets slide out onto his lap, five more onto the floor. He glares at Malik like it's his fault.

"Smooth." Malik leans over Misha, and taps at the bottom corner of the computer screen. "T minus six and counting. Good luck." He straightens up and slaps Misha on the back. Misha's pretty sure that's cackling he hears as Malik walks off.

"Thanks for your generous assistance!" he calls after him.

He'd plan retaliation, but he's got to focus his brain power on finding a gift for Jensen first.

And what scant brain power he has is currently being siphoned into the brain cells it takes to register that Jensen is now standing over his cubicle, staring bemusedly at him.

"You need help with something?" Jensen asks.

Misha manages a very clever response. Unfortunately, it doesn't resemble any known words in the English language.

Astute man of perfection that he is, Jensen deciphers the questioning tone. He jabs a thumb back toward the other cubicles. "The assistance that Malik just not-so-generously denied you?"

"Oh, that," Misha says, bending over in his chair to collect the strewn papers. The ones in his lap flutter toward the floor as he places the others on his desk. Coming around swiftly, Jensen crouches down to catch them before they even hit the floor. While he's handing them over, Misha regains enough sense to pry some gift-picking information out of him. He clears his throat. "So, Jensen, what sort of —"

"Jensen!" Katie calls from across the room. "Your desk is ringing!"

"Answer it!" Jensen yells back.

"I don't get paid enough to do your job!"

"I don't get paid enough to do my job either." Jensen grins up at Misha, then rises to his feet and strides off toward his desk, fluid as a gazelle. If gazelles were made of liquid. If Jensen was a gazelle, he probably could be liquid, or any state of matter he chose.

Misha doesn't know when he started glorifying Jensen so much. He also doesn't know when he started becoming so easily flustered. The universe is clearly out to get him.

He tosses his papers into a haphazard pile in the vicinity of his overflowing inbox.

It's somewhere between the toss and his guilty attempt at tidying the sheets that Misha gets the paper cut.

 

______________________________________________________

 

At approximately twenty minutes to lunchtime, Misha finally gets a break from a sudden onslaught of phone calls and emails to seek advice from anyone not named Malik Whitfield.

He stops by Jared's cubicle first, but it’s empty.

"Sam sent him to go get her lunch." Traci's head pokes up from her desk. "Apparently, she wants to fit a meeting in before the party."

"Fantastic." Misha folds his arms over the top of her cubicle wall.

"We're thinking she's going to schedule it during lunch."

As if on cue, the door to Samantha's office swings open. "Meeting in 15," she says from the doorway. "Bring your lunches. We're doing double time because of this damn party." The door clicks shut behind her.

"Fan-fucking-tastic." Misha buries his head in his arms.

"Don't worry, Katie and I already ordered pizzas. Because we're brilliant like that."

Misha lifts his head, thrusting his chin out over his forearm. "It's not that."

"Well, you’re welcome."

"Consider yourself thanked. I just, kind of, forgot—"

"Your Secret Santa gift."

Misha narrows his eyes. "What are you, psychic?"

"You forgot mine last year. Remember?"

"I didn't! I got you that drum. That big...." He spreads his hands wide. "With the stuff." He wiggles his fingers to indicate decorations he vaguely recalls as being humanoid.

"You did. And I loved it. Still do." Traci leans back in her chair, arms hooked over the sides like it's a throne. "But I saw you sneaking it into the office at the end of lunch. Heard you bitching over the wrapping paper. Oh, and you had scotch tape stuck to your boob when you gave it to me at the party."

"Nipple protection. Besides, I use scotch tape almost semi-daily."

"And there was glitter on your fingers. Same as the wrapping paper."

"It was a party. What's a party without glitter?"

"A tolerable one," comes a response from Jensen, who's passing by. Misha’s head whips around just in time to see Jensen disappear into the break room.

"It's him, isn't it?" Traci's grin is lopsided but not unkind.

Misha cocks his head and he side-eyes her.

"Yeah, yeah. Totally psychic," she says, absently swishing the mouse around as her monitor cuts to the screen saver. "That, and I've never seen you look nervous before."

"I'm not nervous."

"Anxious."

"I'm not anxious. Maybe." Misha pulls back, using the lip of the cubicle to stretch his arms. "Mildly concerned."

"Well, your mild concern is completely justified, thanks to Sam’s advance planning."

"So, money it is then. Now all I need is a card."

"You're not giving him money."

"People like money."

"It's against the rules."

"There are rules?"

Traci nods.

Misha narrows his eyes at her. "Rules that you just made up."

"Nope!"

"Pizza's here!" Katie announces.

"Traci?" Misha warns.

"Pizza's here!" she echoes, springing from her seat. She plants a hand along the side of Misha's face. "Consider this a challenge. An experiment. You like experiments." She pats Misha's cheek and dashes off toward the break room.

"Well, you're no help at all." Misha says to her empty cubicle.

But she kind of is, though he'd never admit it to her. It’s true, after all. Misha can never resist a challenge. Misha Collins was made for experiments.

 

______________________________________________________

 

This particular challenge comes in multiple parts. Part A is the challenge of not thinking about the challenge while one's supposed to be thinking meeting-related thoughts. Part A concludes with a score of 80 to 20, in favor of non-meeting thoughts. It's a lose for Misha on the occupational front, having been called on for suggestions no fewer than seven times with nothing more than roundabout bullshit answers that have Sam knitting her brows at him with each successive nonsensical response. It's also a lose for Misha on the gift-figuring-out front, as no divine inspiration strikes mid-meeting, nor does average, run-of-the-mill inspiration care to grace him with a single, sodding idea. On the other hand (and quite coincidentally so), he now knows that Jensen has seventeen freckles on the back of his left hand. Possibly sixteen, as Misha's not entirely positive that Jensen has stationary freckles. Misha almost swears one of them moved. It's while he’s pondering the theory of nomadic melanin that Sam calls the meeting to a close.

Misha scoops up the papers Sam gave them, tops them with his plate of cold, uneaten pizza and returns to his desk. As soon as he sits down, a mouthful of cheesy dough misshaping his cheeks, fueling him for Part B of his challenge, his phone starts to ring.

 

______________________________________________________

 

At 3:59 p.m., Sam peeks out of her office, a party favor hanging from her pursed lips.

Misha sees her out of the corner of his eye, and would probably find it amusing, were he not completely and totally fucked, having exhausted all delivery options, having scoped the supply closet and all the break room cupboards, having ransacked his desk drawers, Malik’s, Jared’s and Traci's desk drawers, and not having ransacked Katie's desk drawers on pain of death but having been reassured that nothing of worth is contained in said drawers, except perhaps the skeletal remains of the last intern. Misha upgrades his hypothesis about Sam's blood-drinking to include Katie as her most likely accomplice. Until Katie one day opens her drawers for him in order to prove otherwise, he will have no choice but to consider it the irrefutable truth.

He's only just distracted himself, snickering at the pun of Katie's open drawers, when Sam blows into her party favor, the nasally squeak of it making him jump.

Sam yanks the favor from her mouth. "Chop, chop! Party's on. Get to work!"

"I thought that's what we were doing," Misha mumbles.

"Post-work work," Malik says, walking into Misha's cubicle and tugging the sides of his chair.

Misha tips his head back to look upside down at Malik. "Which is post-modern speak for more work."

"All work and no work makes Jack a dull... something. Here." Malik tosses a tangled-up mess of tinsel onto Misha's face. "You've been appointed to the decorating committee. Make the office pretty."

"And witty," Misha says, getting up from his chair with the mass of tinsel still on his head, falling in long, spangly tendrils over his face. "And gay."

He walks into something solid and warm. It _ooph_ s at him.

"What?" he hears Jensen say.

Misha swats the tinsel back from his face and looks up at Jensen. "Happy?" he says.

"Uh." Jensen's face twitches. He rubs a hand under his bottom lip.

"Merry?" Misha's eyes linger on the cleft in Jensen's chin, follow up to his lip. He licks his own. They're dry and tight, and he feels them stick to his teeth as he opens his mouth again. "Merry Christmas." He grins. It's too much teeth; he's sure it's too much teeth.

"Yeah." Jensen nods, still looking uncertain. "You too."

Suddenly Misha's nearly murdered. Or rather, Jared has jumped onto his back, which amounts to the same menace. Jared slides off, still clinging to Misha. Any other time, Misha would roughhouse back, but his thinking seems to be in underwater mode today. He sees a set of keys dangle in front of his face.

"Those are my keys, aren't they?" Jensen asks.

"Come on," Jared says. "You and me are picking up the grub." He peels himself off Misha, and walks past them, tossing the keys to Jensen, who catches them perfectly in the palm of his hand.

"Oh, and we should grab something to drink too," Jared calls over his shoulder.

Jensen's already following him. "Traci brought punch," he says.

"Yeah," Jared says, voice carrying although he's almost at the elevators. "It's _just_ punch."

"Point," Jensen says, catching up to him.

Misha watches them step into the elevator.

"Collins! This place won't decorate itself, man."

Misha turns to see Malik draping tinsel around the flickering light that hangs over the fax machine, as promised. The way the light reflects off the silver foil makes Misha’s eyes swim. He looks away, scrabbles at his head to grab the bundle of tinsel. One strand gets wrapped around his neck, threatening to strangle him like a sinister tinsel tentacle. He's still wearing it, and red in the face, when he stomps over to the break room and begins stringing tinsel up over the entryway with jagged pulls of scotch tape.

 

______________________________________________________

 

Okay, here's the thing — and it will be as much of a shock as it was to Misha when he finally realized it: Misha likes Jensen. _Likes him_ likes him, in that purposefully redundant _Wonder Years_ sort of way.

Misha has never been the shy type. He's openly and unabashedly an equal opportunity, equilateral, bicoastal, bipedal, any port in a storm kind of person. And he has no trouble letting people know, and no trouble taking the bull by the horns. Not that he's into bulls, or any bovine beings. It's nothing personal, more of a safety precaution — avoiding anything with hooves and/or horns.

The thing is, Jensen? Just, he’s _Jensen_. He's handsome and neat and smart and kind and funny and put together and so perfectly _him_. Furthermore, Misha cannot get a read on him. Not a consistent one anyway.

They've gone for drinks after work with the rest of the office, and he's seen Jensen get hit on by men and women alike. But Jensen never leaves the group, never takes any of them up on their offers. He doesn’t exactly give them the cold shoulder. Yet, when it comes to Jensen, Misha can't distinguish between flirting and charm. Jensen oozes charm, like a weeping pustule of shiny niceties. He's an affront to the natural order, is what Jensen is. In fact, Misha thinks it only fair that someone take him down.

Oh, and he would be the one to do it. Honestly. Misha's a rather self-confident guy. Secure, in a kind of unhinged way. Any other time, he’d at least give it a try, see where Jensen’s interests lie.

That's the thing. The _other_ thing. The third thing. It's impolite to count, when the point is: Misha doesn't measure up to Jensen. Height isn't the issue. Looks aren't either. Though perhaps when added to the entire package (not _that_ package), looks contribute to the issue. Misha finds Jensen's perfection an unflagging source of frustration. Because men like Jensen do not fall for men like Misha, with cowlicky hair and unraveled pants hems and scuffed shoes and a squeaky laugh and ear wax. Jensen can't possibly have ear wax. And Misha drives a station wagon, for fuck's sake. It's not like they get paid enough for Jensen to drive a Jaguar, but Misha's sure he has a well-maintained, spotless secondhand BMW or something like that.

Pre-Jensen, Misha was okay with all those things, generally speaking. He was okay being out of range of the perfect people, because he did not want any of those perfect people. But he wants Jensen. It escalates each day, almost in counterpoint to the coffee Jensen makes. The less coffee in the pot, the less restraint Misha has.

Damn coffee. Perfectly made by perfect Jensen with his perfect face. Damn them both.

He glares at the coffee maker, its single perfect crocodile tear of unevaporated coffee at the bottom of the pot not fooling him for a second.

Yes, this is what he's thinking about — coffee, of all things — while everyone else is in the office, rocking around the swivel chair to Brenda Lee.

He's on his second cup of generously spiked punch, which is nothing compared to Katie, who's on her fourth cup. Or Traci and Malik, who are both on their sixth cups. Or Jared, who, with the metabolism of a mid-range rhinoceros, is alarmingly unaffected on his eighth cup. Sam has even dipped into the murky fuchsia waters a few times, foregoing her usual sangria de intern. That only leaves—

"Jensen." Misha swallows the mouthful of punch he only just realized he was swishing around. It seems loud enough to drown out the music blaring in the other room, but apparently it's only in his head because Jensen, striding goal-oriented toward the table, pays it no mind.

"Hey," Jensen says, smiling wide, eyes crinkled like he's just been laughing with someone. Misha watches as he ladles punch into his empty cup. "So," Jensen says, filling the cup dangerously close to the rim and turning toward Misha. "I see you got your gift from Katie."

Misha follows Jensen's gaze down to his chest, where a smart gray and blue striped silk tie hangs loosely. He flicks it with his forefinger, watches it flip over for a second, flip back. "Yeah," Misha says. "I guess she got tired of the paisley ones." One of which — the one he wore to work today, in fact—is presently tied around his waist.

"And the corduroy. She hates that one the most." Jensen sips at his drink, eyes still on the necktie.

"I wear it at least twice a week just for her."

That gets Jensen laughing briefly, before he's tipping back his cup and downing it in three deep swallows. Not that Misha's staring at his throat and tallying.

Jensen returns to the punch bowl, refills his cup, and walks across the room with it, leaning against the counter alongside Misha. "Seems like everyone got their present." He nudges Misha's shoulder with his own. "Except me."

Misha watches the punch slosh around in his own cup. "Somebody's holding out on you."

Jensen sets his cup on the counter, looks down at his own hands. "Yeah." He nudges Misha again, but keeps his shoulder against Misha's this time. The heat from his body seeps right through his dress shirt, where their arms meet, right through Misha's too. He's close enough that Misha can smell the booze on his breath.

Reflexively, Misha tosses back his cup-full of punch, to the last drop. "About that," he begins.

"You know, I picked this out." Jensen interrupts, fingers stroking down the center of Misha's chest, then slipping underneath the tie, holding it up, his knuckles resting over Misha's sternum. "Not that Katie doesn't have good taste. But." He steps in front of Misha, the perfect pleats down the legs of his pants brushing against the baggy knees of Misha's dark khakis. "I helped her make the final choice." Jensen tightens the knot around Misha's neck until it's snug and straight and centered. His hands are still on Misha's tie when he looks up and says, "This one matches your eyes."

Jensen is drunk, Misha thinks, which is the only reason he's reading him loud and clear. No filter. Misha takes a moment to consider that, _no filter_ , as Jensen leans over and slips his tongue into the tiny crevice between Misha's Adam’s apple and his collar, right above the knot of the tie. Jensen is drunk, and licking up the column of Misha's throat to mouth at the juncture of his jaw. And Misha must be drunk too. It's the only explanation he has for why he's ducking away and saying, "What are you doing?"

Jensen blinks blearily, teeth sinking into his lip. "I." His mouth opens and closes. He runs his fingers through his hair, spikes sticking up. "Shit. I'm sorry," he says, backing away. He's out of the break room before Misha has time to respond.

Misha's cold from the loss of body heat and his neck itches from Jensen's drying saliva and his palm hurts from where he's been pressing it into the counter and he's a motherfucking stupid goddamn moron.

Back out in the office, Jared, Traci and Sam are linking arms and dosey do-ing to "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" while Malik and Katie watch on, taunting them.

No Jensen.

Misha avoids them and veers right, down the hall toward the elevators. He stabs the button and invents increasingly cruel insults toward the elevator’s mother waiting for it to show up. The gravity pull on the ride down exacerbates the sinking feeling in his stomach. But it's not the alcohol.

Out in the lobby, there's no sign of Jensen either. So Misha retreats to the bastard elevator again, and heads to the parking garage. It's a fool's mission — the garage is enormous, capable of sustaining their high rise as well as the adjoining mall. He's only ever run into Jensen a handful of times here, each of those times at or around the elevators. But Misha's nothing if not determined, like a rat in a maze fixated on that single cube of cheese.

Misha reminds himself that Jensen is not cheese.

Maybe brie.

Misha’s distracting himself with the various kinds of cheese Jensen definitely is not when he stalks past a guy dangling his legs off the end of a pickup truck. He nearly keeps going, but something — curiosity maybe — makes him turn around.

Jensen.

He's watching Misha cautiously from his seat on the edge of the truck bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees. His trim, clean suit strikes a sharp contrast to the dirty white pickup. There's a dent on the side panel, rust along the back window. It looks at least twenty years old, is probably older.

"Had her since college," Jensen says, patting the metal by his leg. "She's seen better days, but she still runs fine."

"This is yours?" Misha steps closer, considers sitting next to Jensen.

Jensen doesn't let on whether that would be okay or not. "Yeah," is all he says.

"A pickup truck?"

Jensen huffs a quiet laugh. "You know what they say, you can take the boy out of Texas...."

Misha drops down next to him, not even second-guessing the move. "You're a redneck?" He's grinning when he says it.

It works. Jensen's half smile turns whole. "Well, shit, son." He scratches the back of his neck exaggeratedly. "Didn't ya know?"

"Yeah, okay." Misha nods at him, raising his hands in surrender. "You're still a walking anachronism, Ackles. All prettied up in your fancy suit, driving your good old boy jalopy."

"Hey, first of all, she's not a jalopy." Jensen acknowledges Misha's look of incredulity. "Much. And I may not be a real redneck, but if you call me pretty again, there may be a real ass-whupping coming your way."

There's a second when Misha manages to bite his tongue. Then, "Ass whupping?" He gives in to laughter.

Jensen pushes at Misha's face, and Misha curls in on himself, falls over on his side, giggling.

"Asshole," Jensen says, kneeing Misha in the back.

"Hick."

"Hippie."

"Not any more. I've been upgraded. I've got a shiny new tie," he says, rolling over onto his other side. He's halfway there, when he sees that Jensen has fallen back onto the truck bed, arms holding his stomach, legs still hooked over the end. Misha raises himself up on one elbow, props his chin on his hand. "See?" He flaps the tie at Jensen.

Jensen grabs it, but just holds on.

"Come on," Misha says quietly. Letting go of the tie, he drops his hand to the hollow of Jensen’s belly, thumb brushing briefly against Jensen's little finger. He meets Jensen’s gaze, forcing himself not to flinch. "Come on."

Jensen tugs, and Misha goes willingly, pressing his forearm into the truck bed for leverage. It's a feather touch of lips at first, all tease, too dry. Then Jensen grunts and surges up, sucking Misha's upper lip into his mouth. Only after Jensen follows through, overly thorough, on the lower lip does Misha have a chance to slot his mouth against Jensen's and lick his way inside. Jensen’s mouth is full and wet and so warm. His kisses follow a rhythm, and Misha falls into it, languid and steady, slower than the staccato of his own heartbeat.

With Jensen's tongue in his mouth, Misha finally sheds all trepidation. He slides his hand down the front of Jensen's pants, subtle as ever.

Still providing ways to frustrate Misha, Jensen jerks away. "Garage," he says, as Misha finds his crotch again, massages the hard line of his cock through the light fabric. Jensen's head drops back to the truck bed, exposing the arc of his neck.

"Then let's go," Misha says into Jensen's neck. The stubble tickles his tongue.

"Can't." Jensen swallows. "Not sober yet." His hand reaches for Misha's, still stroking him through his pants, but doesn't pull Misha's hand off. "You?" Fist still holding onto Misha's tie, he gives a quick yank to draw Misha's attention.

Misha barely raises his lips from Jensen's skin. "No." He latches on to the soft flesh under Jensen's chin, scraping and sucking. He feels Jensen's cock jerk in his hand, and wetness seeps up against his thumb. His own cock stiffens more, pressing against his fly hard enough to feel the zipper. He's just considering letting go of Jensen and undoing his own pants when the click of heels on the concrete startles them. They scramble into sitting positions, knees drawn up, just as an elderly woman pushing a wire cart filled with shopping bags ambles into view.

She looks up at them, through thick, large glasses that make her eyes seem owlish. "Merry Christmas," she says.

"Merry Christmas, ma’am," Jensen says automatically, Misha a half-beat behind him.

When she's out of earshot, Jensen thunks his head against the side of the truck. Misha scrunches up his nose and faceplants into his knees, snickering.

"So." Jensen slides off the truck bed, adjusting the seat of his crotch once he's on his feet. He sidles up behind Misha from the outside of the truck, folding his arms over the edge. "Come home with me."

Misha untucks himself and shifts around to face Jensen. "You're still drunk."

Jensen shrugs. "I'm getting better." He walks over to the driver's side door and opens it, looks back at Misha.

"The responsible thing to do is wait it out," Misha says, hopping to the ground, and closing the truck flap behind him. He walks toward Jensen.

"The passenger side's that way," Jensen says.

"If we're going to wait," Misha says. "Which we should." He grabs hold of the top of the door near Jensen's head.

"And potentially scandalize another old lady?" Jensen props his foot up on the running board. Misha's eyes fall to his crotch, the inseam tenting with his erection.

"Or little old man. Maybe even a little old hermaphrodite. I'm a giver like that."

"Are you?" Jensen's mouth is close to Misha's now, hovering closer.

"Yeah. Besides, there's less light right here. It's downright discreet."

Jensen snorts. "Sure," he says sarcastically, but his fingers hook under Misha's waistband like his mind is already made up.

"Got condoms?"

"Not on me," Jensen says, lips moving over Misha's, sticking slightly.

Misha presses his lips fully to Jensen's, licking as he shifts back. "No lube either then."

"No." Jensen follows after Misha's mouth.

Misha's wilier, tucks his head into the crook of his arm, still gripping the door frame. "Butter? Olive oil? Saran wrap?"

Lowering his leg from the truck, Jensen stands directly in front of Misha, lays his hand over Misha's on top of the door. Their cocks rub against each other, amazing and torturous through their pants, so Misha barely hears it when Jensen says, "You planning to fuck me or prepare the Christmas goose?"

Misha grins his most devilish grin. "The first part," he says, staring up at Jensen. "The goose is plan B if you say no."

"Well then." Jensen reaches between them and unzips Misha's fly. His fingers pry back the elastic of Misha's boxers and slip inside. "Bad day for the goose." With his thumbnail, Jensen draws out a drop of precome and drags it down over Misha's shaft, rubbing it in. He pushes at the veins, seeming to test their give, then tightens his fist and jacks Misha quick and dirty. Misha's toes curl in his boots, and he's shoving Jensen off, groaning at the same time, frustrated with his own interruption.

He tears at Jensen's pants, popping the button, pulling the zip hard enough to rip it from its seams. He's muttering an apology, but Jensen's leaning down, lips locking onto his earlobe and lapping. Misha's nipples peak, tender against the starchy fabric of his shirt.

Jensen's cock is hot and thick below Misha’s hand, just under a thin layer of briefs. The pants prevent him from getting at it. He curses, could have sworn he already undid the button.

Jensen chuckles into the shell of Misha’s ear, rumbling and graveled. Tracing the whorls of his ear with the tip of his tongue, Jensen's fingers flit past Misha's, unlatch the hook in his trousers, then grab onto the truck door again, on either side of Misha's head. The door wobbles a little and Misha nearly loses his balance, but Jensen doesn't miss a beat, dipping his head down and sucking searing kisses into the tender spot below Misha's ear.

There's a moment of hesitation, while he's preoccupied by the feel of Jensen, hot and sinuous and relentless, on his neck. Then Misha shoves at the waist of Jensen's pants, forcing them down. They fall around his ankles — a soft, shushing sound nearly lost to the loud breaths between them. Jensen trails down to Misha's clavicle as Misha ducks his head and watches his own hands carefully peel back the elastic from Jensen's sweat-damp skin, the band rustling the light, feathery hairs below his navel. He pulls the elastic over Jensen's hipbones. The head of Jensen's cock juts out over the waistband, slick and purple-red. Misha pushes the underwear down. It catches on Jensen's thighs, covering his balls. Misha's hand circles the heavy length of Jensen's cock, and the silken skin twitches in his grip. His throat clenches as he slides his hand up and down, imagining the feel and taste of it in his mouth, the way it would weigh on his tongue, fit against his palate, fill him too full to go all the way in. He wants it. He wants that and everything else.

Misha lets go with a growl. "Turn around."

Jensen straightens up, quirks an eyebrow at him. But he shifts around without protest.

The heel of Misha's hand prods into Jensen's back, and Jensen bends over the driver's seat, hands splayed on the vinyl. Misha tugs Jensen's underwear until it falls down, baring his tight, pert ass. He runs his hands over it, spreading Jensen until he can see the pink hole. He leans down, twists his tongue into the tiny pucker. Jensen jolts but steadies himself, holds on. With his thumbs digging into Jensen's cheeks, Misha spreads Jensen wider. He flattens his tongue and laps at Jensen's hole — long, slow, even swipes that have Jensen bucking back toward him in under a minute.

Misha wants to spend all night here, between Jensen's legs, all his senses narrowed down to salt and musk and sweat on skin. But they've already pressed their luck.

Reluctantly, he stands up. Smoothing a palm up Jensen's backside, he takes hold of his cock and guides it into the crease of Jensen's ass. Jensen's muscles clench, tightening around Misha's cock and he keens, knows it's only a hint at what Jensen has to offer. Slotting himself, slippery with precome, between Jensen's cheeks, Misha begins to thrust. There's no finesse, just the need for friction. He slips his hand around Jensen's waist, under his shirt, and forms a tight fist for Jensen to fuck into. He bucks into Misha's hand, soon following the same pace Misha's setting behind him, speeding up as Misha loses control and hammers fast and hard, sliding out of Jensen's cheeks more times than he's between them.

Too soon, _too soon_ , Misha thinks. And it's over.

Strings of come cling to the sweat-soaked shirt plastered to Jensen's lower back, fill the shallow crease of his ass where Misha ruts into him, riding out the aftershocks.

He completely misses when Jensen comes, just knows that, when he staggers back and Jensen stands up, stretching out a crick, there's come splattered on the seat.

Jensen hikes up his pants and underwear, hissing as his briefs chafe the sensitive skin of his cock. Still dazed, Misha watches as Jensen undoes the knot of the paisley tie that’s still around Misha's middle, only hitched up higher along with his shirt. Wadding it up, one-handed, Jensen turns back to the seat and mops up his own come.

"Hey!" Misha tries to be offended, but can't help admire how nicely the cheap cotton absorbs it all. It's too late anyway.

"You've got a new one," Jensen says, tossing the necktie at Misha's face. "You didn't jizz on it, did you?"

"No, I." Misha checks. "No, it's clean," he says, impressed.

It’s also crooked. Jensen rights it for him, slumps back against the seat when he’s done. "So, um, wanna go back to the party?"

Misha looks up from where he's redoing his pants. Unlike Jensen, he leaves his shirt untucked. "Not really."

Jensen crosses his long, stretched-out legs at the ankles. His patent leather shoes bump against Misha’s crusty boots. "Still wanna come home with me?" Jensen says. He pauses, then adds, grinning, "I'll make you dinner."

"You're sober enough?"

"To make dinner?"

"Alcohol and stoves don't mix, Jensen. Booze is kind of flammable, you know."

"I'm sober," Jensen says. "Half fucked stupid, but." He shrugs.

"Well," Misha says, leaning in close and biting at Jensen's lips. "Take me home so I can fuck you stupid the rest of the way."

 

______________________________________________________

 

On Monday morning, Jensen and Misha stumble in together, circles under their eyes, and mouth-shaped bruises under their button down shirts.

Misha heads straight for the coffee maker.

"I haven't made any yet," Jensen says, close behind him.

"I know." Misha grabs a filter and the coffee canister from the cupboard. "I never gave you your present."

Jensen stares at him. "Okay."

"This is your present."

"Coffee? You shouldn't have."

"No, not just coffee. I'm going to arrive before you every day from now on."

"Sure you are," Jensen interjects.

Ignoring him, Misha sets the filter in the coffee maker. "And there will be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for you when you get here, with no effort on your part. I absolve you of all coffee-making efforts." He turns to Jensen, offers a subtle bow. "That is my gift to you."

Jensen toys with the watch on his wrist.

"You're fidgeting," Misha observes keenly.

"Yeah, no."

"Yeah, you are."

"Okay, yes, I'm fidgeting," Jensen says quickly. "But, you're not making me coffee."

"No, I am. See?" He starts scooping the granules into the filter. Jensen stops him with a hand over the basket.

"Misha, your coffee sucks."

"It does not!"

Jensen smiles at Misha's defensive tone. "It does."

"But." Misha sighs. "That was totally an ingenious present. World leaders quake at my inventive prowess."

"Of course they do," comes a groggy voice. It's Sam. "Where's the coffee?"

"Coming up," Jensen says, elbowing Misha aside and taking over.

"You drink coffee?" Misha impresses himself with the dumbness of his own question.

"What did you think I drink?" Sam says, leaning against the entryway. "The blood of inadequate interns?" She grins.

Misha meets her straight on. "You mix it into the coffee, don’t you?"

"Gives it that extra pick-me-up," she says, and turns on her heels.

"Sam drinks the coffee," Misha says, steepling his fingers in front of his lips. "Now I need a new way of telling time."

Jensen gives him a curious look.

"And I need to think up a new present. My world is crumbling."

"Well, I can help with the present. Here’s exactly what I want." Jensen leans toward Misha and whispers, "Lunch. My place. Wear the tie."

Misha’s echoing Jensen’s earlier look right back at him, curiouser still, when he hears Sam call his name.

"Since you're here so early," she’s saying. "Why don't you help me with this."

As he's heading out, not grumbling at all, Misha hears Jensen say, " _Nothing_ but the tie."

The smell of brewing coffee follows Misha out into the main office. It's Monday; there's a whole work week ahead of him. More insufferable phone calls and insurmountable emails. The flickering light above the fax machine casts harsh white over the Christmas party decorations, revealing their sad, sorry state. Worst of all, the cracks in Misha’s previously impenetrable logic are beginning to show. The world as he knew it is a farce, an unpredictable lie.

But there’s coffee in the near future and, a little further on, the promise of putting to test a new theory about the limitless uses of the average modern necktie.

Misha smiles. Then yawns wide enough to crack his jaw.

Thankfully, the coffee comes first. The universe retains some order after all.

**Author's Note:**

> • For feelforfaith, who wanted:
> 
> _Jensen/Misha, please! Anything will be good, really, but if you would like a more specific prompt: drunk Jensen hitting on Misha, from Misha's POV :)._
> 
> • Beta: zelda-zee.


End file.
